


A few of the Saints of Oxford

by asparagusmama



Series: Saints and Sinners [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Saints, Stream of Consciousness, catholic faith, existential flu, real police work, short staffed police work, under-funded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of James Hathaway. All Saints Day on a Sunday, to be exact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A few of the Saints of Oxford

**Author's Note:**

> small warning of one use of the f- word at the end!
> 
> I missed posting this on All Saints Day by a minute :(

The alarm went of at just before five, its harsh beep rousing Hathaway out of a deep slumber. He rolled off the sofa, disorientated, not sure when or where he was. Hadn’t he made it to bed last night? In fact, what time did he get home? He remembered offering to take Lizzie for a pint, but she had other plans, and then what...?

He found his phone, switched off the alarm and climbed to his feet, painfully, and headed for the shower. It wasn’t a good one in his new, furnished, flat. He missed the old one, but he’d given up everything to go on that pilgrimage, the one that never happened, walking almost but not quite to The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela but turning around at the last moment, like Spock rejecting the Kohlinar to return to Kirk. However he told himself he had returned to the Thames Valley, to the police, to Innocent perhaps, he knew he had returned to Robert Lewis, his sinful love not repented, just hurting and burning until he had found some kind of peace. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

And he remembered where he’d been, at Gurdip’s, watching a Star Trek marathon and eating decent Indian takeaway _ trust Gurdip to know where to get desi food in Oxford – and too much Kingfisher beer! 

He turned up the heat on the shower – well, fiddled with the tap until it was a tolerably warm dribble rather than chilly. £1498 a month he was paying for this antiquated plumbing!

James the Great, brother of John the beloved one of Christ – and how he used to delude himself in his later teens about that, right up to the teachings of the Seminary regards his disorder – one of the Twelve, his name’s sake... he never made it! Turned back for Robbie, like a stupid, lovesick idiot!

Showered, he hurriedly found a clean shirt and pulled on his serviceable three piece black suit he’d taken to wearing, the waistcoat an extra layer of protection – against what, he didn’t know! Or perhaps he did... He hadn’t unpacked yet; he used to be such an ordered person. What had happened?

Robert Lewis and Laura Hobson, that was what.

And the never-ending sudden calls from Nell! Why didn’t she tell him? He’d have moved in, if only he’d known. But she’d always wanted to play the martyr. Unlike St Eleanor, from whom his sister was named. Mother of Constantine, converted to Christianity before him... he wondered if his sister had any residual faith? He doubted it.

He had just put on the kettle for some much needed strong coffee when the phone went.

A body. Probably not suspicious, but CID presence required. He wondered about ringing Lizzie, but decided after her night out with her friends, she deserved a bit more of a lie in.

The problem with cutbacks, staff shortages, and a supposed low murder rate, Oxford, nor the Thames Valley as a rule, had a MIU, just a SCU, and sometimes the serious could be stretched to mean a small break-in, this being Oxford, and if the break-in was also a college. As he checked his emails on his phone as he walked back up the road to where he hoped his car was he read that St Edmund’s Hall had called that morning, to report a break in, some money and sundries missing. Uniform requesting his presence at some point, the Principle would be ‘much reassured that all was being done’.

James snorted! Of course he would!

St Edmund of Abingdon, perhaps the first Oxford Master of Arts and first Oxford educated Archbishop of Canterbury, such an Oxford man to be canonized and its patron saint...

His car wasn’t there!

Damn! Of course it wasn’t! It was outside Gurdip’s house in Cowley. He called control and within two minutes a neighbour patrol car picked him up and took him in comfort to St Giles. He knew he was being lazy; he could have walked it within ten minutes. The car, having to avoid the city centre and circle around Holywell and Longwall and the Parks and back down to St Giles took eight, hardly a difference!

He was surprised to see it was good old Aberdeen Angus. Then he remembered that Laura was with Robbie, in Manchester for the weekend, then on a week’s leave. This time of year was always difficult for Laura: full of bad memories. The were going Trick or Treating with Jack, Robbie had sent him a few pictures of his grandson all dressed up as Iron Man. James wasn’t even sure if that was appropriate for Halloween, or even if it was appropriate to dress up little kids and tote them around begging sweets from strangers – it gave very mixed messages. Besides, All Saint’s Eve, the Christianised form Samhain, the years end, the veil between the seen and unseen thin, was it even safe? No one cared for children’s souls anymore, just their happiness, even at Sunday school! He looked at his watch, he probably wasn’t going to make Mass again. His one and only Sunday commitment. 

Well, Nell might beg to differ, of course! But after last time, what his father had said. He knew he didn’t know, didn’t mean it... he’d meant it once upon a time, the time his mind was at then, though, hadn’t he?

So, no commitments. And that suited him fine. Which was why he was the one who again and again volunteered to relieve other CID inspectors the graveyard Sunday watch.

The body was a homeless man, a young man in dirty combats, a holey black jumper and a too big donkey jacket, his worldly possessions in two backpacks, an army surplus one and a red and black waterproof one, the type kids had for school bags. He was curled up in the church porch, been found as the curate came to prepare for early morning Matins, followed by the BCP Eucharist. The curate identified him as one of the rough sleepers who had previously camped in the gardens and graveyard of St Giles. He’d had a tent once, but had probably lost it last week, when uniform had been called to remove the several rough sleepers – trespass, scaring away the tourists, the Vicar of St Giles had decided.

The curate and James were silent a minute, looking at the ground, uncomfortable. James couldn’t speak for the curate, but he prayed for the young lost man’s soul, for the safety of all rough sleeps, attacked by new by-laws and changes in church policies, being swept off the streets of Oxford to... where? Where do you go when you have nothing? A lit shop doorway is warmer and safer than outside the city centre, where rough sleepers could be kicked, spat at, urinated on, stolen from, murdered...?

“What do you think?” he asked Angus. “Hypothermia?”

“I’ll know more when I get him back. Some form of coma, certainly, but I doubt hypothermia, it’s unseasonably warm, isn’t it? Only dropping to about ten last night. Could be diabetic, hypo, hyper... or overdose, or alcohol poisoning. Always sad, these cases.”

“So no foul play?”

“No obvious signs, no. I’ll let you know after the PM if anything suspicious shows up.”

James nodded, “Fine. When will that be?”

“After I’ve had my breakfast, I think.”

James nodded again, and then instructed the uniformed woman that SOCOs weren’t needed, but to gather all his belongings and bag and tag them. He told the curate he could open up, there was no sign of foul play, and the sanctity of the church porch way would not need cleansing, then left, walking back towards the city centre.

It was ironic, he thought angrily, that the patron saint of beggars, poor people, outcasts of all kinds, the mentally ill, the leper, that historically had been a church involved in work with the homeless, had taken to this new city council policy with such gusto. Ironic and sad, and he was glad he wasn’t in uniform, glad he didn’t have to arrest and fine a person for having nothing, for asking for the charity and kindness of others in an increasingly cruel world!

He jumped on a number 5 at the top of the High – no point bothering uniform or Gurdip – getting off past Florence Park to fetch his car. He’d picked up a takeaway coffee at AMT, just as they were opening. The staff hadn’t been happy with him, the boy who served him had been surly and half awake.

He carried on driving up the Cowley Road and made Mass at ten at Our Lady Help of Christians – not his usual place of worship, The Oratory, but it was better than nothing on this feast day of all the saints.

At the beginning of the blessing of the Host, his arse began buzzing. Fortunately he nipped out and answered the phone. If he’d been in his own church, many people would know he was on rotation as a police officer and not give him those typically English annoyed non-stares and silent tuts.

It was Moody, ringing from home, asking if he’d visited the Principle of St Edmund’s Hall yet, about the burglary. He was politely dismissive as possible, then switched off the phone and went back inside just in time to take his turn to file up to the altar to receive the Host. He felt defiled, somehow, by that young boy’s death on the church doorstep, so God knew he needed blessings and forgiveness.

After Mass he checked his phone again in the car. Three texts from Nell, and a voicemail too. He deleted them without listening of reading them. Another from Moody, ensuring he did pop by St Edmund’s Hall this morning. Finally, a voicemail from Angus, confirming the death was not suspicious, the boy had died of a diabetic coma, blood sugar too low. Angus sounded angry, and ranted at the closure of some homeless shelter he had been a volunteer doctor to. Hathaway knew it, it had been in St Michael’s Street, a homeless shelter St Mungo funded, so it took dogs too. Retrofitted a couple of years ago into a high end hotel and restaurant. Typical!

St Michael, Archangel, Guardian of The Holy Mother Church of Rome. And police officers. Please protect me from more bodies today, James hurriedly prayed as the saint flitted through his mind.

And St Mungo, that hard Scottish Celt, who had ministered to the Picts and founded Glasgow, patron saint of the bullied, adopted by that charity who worked with the homeless, who recognised those dogs on bits of string as the only family of so many of the dispossessed and troubled rough sleepers and welcomed dog with human in with open arms.

Angus, a medical volunteer with the homeless? Really? Hidden depths? What did James do these days, since his return from his non-pilgrimage?

Not much, that was what. He must amend that. He really should.

His phone vibrated just as he pulled into the Cowley Centre car park, thinking about breakfast.

A body. Thanks for nothing St Michael!

St. Anne’s Road, in Headington. A short drive through Hollow Way and the Slade into Windmill Road and a turn into St Anne’s, a row of post war red brick semis nearby the Jurassic cliff face, a popular place with fossil hunters. He was there is less than ten minutes. An ambulance was there, paramedics standing around, talking to the young PC, barely out of his teens by the look of him. Sometimes these days James felt so old.

St Anne was the mother of Mary, maternal grandmother of Christ, patron saint of among others grandparents, mothers, the childless and pregnancy, but also poverty, lost things and moving house. There was a for sale board in the garden, James noted as he pulled up.

A young girl had got up late that morning and couldn’t rouse her mother, who had come home late that night from a party. Her mother and father were separated, and she didn’t know where he was. He’d walked out last Christmas and they’d not heard from him again. Her Mum had gone to pieces. She’d been an illustrator for children’s books, but had fallen behind with commissions and they were struggling. Last month a solicitor’s letter had informed them they had to move, her father was selling the house. She sat on the sofa in between two neighbours, a motherly sort of old fashioned woman in her sixties and a skinny woman in her twenties, from next door each side, James understood. They were each holding a hand, and the girl was rocking slightly but otherwise was composed. She was nine years old but seemingly had been keeping the family together for a year. Her younger brother and baby sister were next door with the girlfriend of the young woman.

The other young PC, an Asian woman in a hijab under her uniform hat, stood by the doorway, looking shocked. Probationer, James thought sadly.

Her Mum was sad all the time. Drank lots of wine all the time. Took tablets the doctor had given her to make her happy. They didn’t work. She’d got out last night to a party of a writer friend; all dressed up like a witch. She’d left them with sweets and pop and money for a pizza. They’d watched My Little Pony DVDs until the little ones were asleep, and then she had put them to bed and read for ages, until it said one o’clock on her alarm clock.

What was she reading?

Rose by Holly Webb, it was good, had he heard of it? It was set in a magical alternative universe where the posh people had magic, but Rose came from an orphanage but she was very magical.

Was she an orphan now?

James didn’t know what to say.

He got up when Angus arrived. James had trusted uniform and felt pretty foolish when the pathologist found the suicide note. It was full of regret and apologies.

“Probably the balance of her mind, she didn’t mean to,” Angus whispered.

James knew how she felt. Heart broken and unhappy and alone. But then, he hadn’t had three children with Robbie, so he was also judgemental on her self-pity. He didn’t have the time, but he stayed until the FLO and the social worker arrived.

Mary, Mother of God, of us all, please keep that little family together, he prayed, knowing full well a baby and a three year old and a nine year old could easily end up in three separate emergency foster homes tonight.

He’d put his phone on silent. A message from Moody, reminding him of St Edmund Hall’s Principle, still waiting, and two from Nell, telling him his father was crying for him, for his little boy. She sounded bitter, resentful and jealous. When had it all gone wrong, his baby sister had once adored him, and he had doted on her, too, once.

Moody and his Principle could go hang, and his father would forget his tears by the time he would arrive, and instead remember some fault from his teens, he was sure, if he remembered him at all. Besides, he hadn’t eaten. Time to get to the station and log and write up everything so far with a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

St Aldates, once Bishop of Gloucester, but now much better known as a road in Oxford to get to Christchurch college, cathedral and meadow. And home of Oxford city’s police station, in it’s fine yellow stone building and hidden car parks.

It was a beautiful blue-skied day, mild for the 1st of November, and James enjoyed the views over the Isis and the bridge and meadow from the office. He sat at his laptop.

He’d almost completed his cheese and ham toastie and was contemplating some form of cake and another coffee when the call came in, the young duty DC who was also in on a quiet Sunday took the call, but James realised he didn’t have the experience. Or the aptitude and inclination, really. He emailed Laxton, who was most definitely off rota, and called in his sergeant, to meet him there.

St Hilda of Whitby had founded an abbey, and as abbess, had been a respected scholar and medic, and had contributed heavily to the conversion of the new Anglo Saxon England. It was presumably for the scholar, and the independence of men, for whom the college was given her name when founded by that pioneer and campaigner for a girl and woman’s right to have an education, Dorothea Beale in 1893. But it was to St Maria Goretti that James sent his arrow prayer as he drove the short distance down the High and over Magdalene Bridge; the patron saint of rape victims.

Two friends of the girl had gone to the one of the housekeepers in the Domestic Bursar’s Office, the gentle woman that they all trusted, and between them they persuaded her to phone the police. James arrived before Lizzie, and was so conscious of his height and his gender. He sat on the floor rather than the only chair, asking her gently what happened. Her friends stayed with her, sitting on her bed with her. Her undergraduate room was very small.

She wasn’t sure if it was rape, she hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t said yes. She’d been very drunk, although she had only had one cider at the Halloween party, and had stuck to cola after that. No, she hadn’t had a shower or bath, or even undressed, she had got home in the early hours and just passed out on top of her bed, and when she had woken, and started to remember what had happened, she couldn’t stop crying.

Bastard, James thought, and then, when the poor girl stumbled, embarrassed and ashamed, through the details, bastards! He tried to reassure her it wasn’t her fault, that she had done nothing wrong, that even if she didn’t say no, it was certainly rape as she hadn’t given consent. As he gently reassured her he prayed CPS would pick it up, that they would get a conviction. It looked like they would at least get good DNA, and hopefully some witnesses from the house party. As soon as Lizzie arrived he’d get her to take the girl and her friends to the rape suite and if he logged the details for Laxton, she could push it tomorrow. He made scrupulous, detailed, notes, time and place of party, who she remembered was there, what she had to drink, the appearance of the boys, what college she thought they went to. They were part of a bunch from St John’s she thought, and she’d heard someone say they were some of the Bullingdon lot.

Figures, thought James. Over-privileged, arrogant, drunken, stoned, self indulgent, selfish, sexist twats, the lot of them.

Lizzie arrived, apologetic and kind, and took the girls off, squeezing his arm slightly as she did so, as she did sometimes in such cases, as if she had noticed something, been told something, by someone. Robert most likely.

He went back to the station and began to log the rape into the computer, for Laxton and her team in the morning. He stressed the good forensic evidence and the possible witnesses; he knew he was almost begging for CPS to pick it up. Who knew who these boys’ daddies were, after all? And the girl was a state schoolgirl, from an Academy in Brixton, mixed race.

And this was Oxford. Bloody Oxford. He loved it. And hated it. Privilege and poverty, in extremis, hand in hand.

He missed Robbie, even through all the heartache, even thought he would always be just a friend. He could cure this existential flu and make him smile.

Rape. It wasn’t something that only happened to women, after all.

He’d finally finished logging the detailed fully and sat back, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. He’d taken his jacket off, and the shirt and waistcoat stretched across his chest and stomach, defining taut, hard, muscle. He’d closed his eyes as he yawned, it had been a long day with an early start, and when he opened them Moody was looking at him.

“James.”

He stood up abruptly and tugged down his waistcoat. “Sir... I mean Joe?”

“I hear you’ve been busy. Two bodies and a rape.”

“Yes... Joe.”

“Which is why I’ve popped round to speak to the Principle of St Edmunds’ alright?”

“Thank you.”

“Your first shout was just before six, is that right, and you’ve been on the go almost all day. I thought I might treat you to a Sunday dinner. I hear The Head of The River does a good roast. Fancy it?”

“Um...”

And he couldn’t think at all why he could say no to his boss offering him dinner, only at the back of his mind he could hear Lizzie’s teasing tone a couple of days before as he moaned about the way the new CSI would not leave him alone to just get on with the job,

“Oh, it’s just that he fancies you Sir! If you were kids at infants he’d be tying your shoelaces together. Well, I was going to say pig tails, but I doubt you ever had long enough hair.” Then she had grinned cheekily. “Sir?”

Why had he ever thought to not like his new sergeant, he really did not know?

At least he could push Moody to chase CPS on the rape case. And funding for two DIs on a Sunday.

He tried a smile. “Thank you...um, Joe. That would be lovely. But I think I’d prefer a sausage roll to the roast.”

Fuck! Why the hell did he say that? All day he had tried to keep The Feast of All Saints in contemplation if not prayer, and his mouth goes and blurs out... that!

Oh well...

As he and Moody exited the building and headed for the pub, James phone began to ring again. It was Nell. He ignored it.

**Author's Note:**

> The references to rough sleeping and begging being a by-law offence in Oxford is true, as is St Giles Church having rough sleepers removed from their land. This is most current and new, as in over the past few weeks. Oxford has the highest per capita head homeless population outside London. I know, sad but true.


End file.
